


Saudade

by queerwatson



Series: The Lexical Gaps of the English Language [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-17
Updated: 2012-02-17
Packaged: 2017-10-31 08:29:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/342015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queerwatson/pseuds/queerwatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the aftermath of that day at the hospital, Greg pays John a visit to try and empathize.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Saudade

**Author's Note:**

> Right. So. Lestrade kind of got his feelings all over this one, but it's still Lestrade trying to empathize with John, and well, if that's not your thing, you can always just come back to the series later. There are slight spoilers for The Reichenbach Fall as well, so again, if you don't want those, come back tomorrow. It'll still be chock-full of Reichenbach angst, but as long as you're familiar with ACD canon you'll be fine again tomorrow.

As it turns out, there’s never the time to initiate anything.

He watches Sherlock stand on that roof, and he can’t bring himself to say the three words he now knows have been true all along - if only he’d realized, if only he’d said something different - if only their last conversation hadn’t been a fight.

He stands at Sherlock’s grave, and God, he wishes he could say it, and even pretend that he might hear it. But he can’t, he can’t pretend that Sherlock will hear him if he says it to the ground or to his grave, so he just doesn’t say it, because he can’t bring himself to say it to the air or to have someone overhear it when Sherlock never got to.

When he gets back to the flat, he knows that no one will be there. He sits down in his chair, and looks around at Sherlock’s things - they’re everywhere, just like they always were, and he can come so close to pretending that Sherlock will just come sweeping back in through the door at any moment and whisk him away on a case, or maybe they’d just sit on the couch and watch Bond movies, and John could actually say something, anything.

He can feel a sort of prickle behind his eyes - no tears are coming, though - he’s fresh out. He clenches his jaw, turns on the telly and tries so, so hard not to think.

By the time Mrs. Hudson brings him up some tea, he doesn’t know how much time has passed - it could have been a full day for all he knows.

She tells him that Greg is downstairs and wants to see him - he smiles, his lips trembling, and asks her to invite him up.

“John.”

Lestrade is matter of fact - it’s been comforting having him around, because he isn’t faking any sorrow - he did care about Sherlock, but he hasn’t lied about how much, and he does sort of still believe in him. It’s nice, having him about.

“Greg.”

“I was thinking the other day - I don’t know much. I know you were close,”

“Greg, please, can we not?”

John watches him sigh. “No, sorry, I have something I feel like you should hear. I know how you feel. No - I know you don’t want to, but listen. Before my wife, and before... well, before. I was engaged -”

“We weren’t -”

Greg shakes his head. “I know that. It’s the closest thing I’ve got, though, so just listen. I was completely in love with her, she was perfect - I mean, I thought she was. Bloody brilliant and gorgeous and ready to take over the world she was so just... vibrant. She loved me, too, and... One night, we ran out of a couple of groceries - milk, bread, that sort of thing. She says she’ll go get them, just run down to the shop on the corner and she’ll be right back.” There’s a catch in his voice, and John knows how that feels, because he can remember sitting with Ella, and that same thing happened every time he tried to say Sherlock’s name. He can’t picture it still hurting this much after so long - after as long as it’s been for Lestrade, but he can’t ever picture this hurt going away, either. “She never came back. Her body - they found her right leg, and... Well, they found pieces, but never...” He stops there. He’s not crying, but he has to clear his throat, and God, John knows.

“I’m sorry.”

He bows his head. “No, no, John. That wasn’t - to have someone who means so much not only taken from you so abruptly, but to watch it happen, to watch them do it themselves... I can’t imagine. I just... I know how losing someone that you find who lights everything up, and then leaves the room dark when they leave and wishing so hard that they’ll just show back up and bring all the light back with them - I know how that feels. Saudade, I heard it called once - somebody else I told that story to told me that. It’s a Portuguese word, and... Well, the idea that there is a word for that sort longing, it always made me feel better.”

John tries again to smile. All he can think of is cafuné, of that last calm, comfortable afternoon that he never thought would be the last, and how that all stemmed from another Portuguese word. “Thanks for... Well, thanks. I do appreciate the trying, it’s just... I can’t believe that he’d do that, Greg. Not yet.”

Lestrade nods. “Well, if you want company, I can stay for a while -”

“That would be nice. Thank you.”

He takes his coat, off, then, and John turns on the telly and offers to make tea - automatically making two, but having someone to give the second cup to this time.

Maybe he should feel better that there’s a word for the empty tug in his chest - but the idea that it’s permanent enough to need a word doesn’t give him any comfort at all.

**Author's Note:**

> Also. Um. Once this series is over, if you're a fan of Lestrade feelings, I'm thinking of writing a Mollstrade fic that's based around this little headcanon I discovered for Lestrade, writing this. If anyone would be interested.


End file.
